


as the sea

by metanoias



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff and Angst, French and Indian War, Historical Hetalia, I'm Sorry, M/M, Non-Chronological, Post-War, Revolutionary War, Romance, So much angst, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, USUK - Freeform, World War I, World War II, but it ends up okay i pinkie promise, imagery and mythology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7643047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metanoias/pseuds/metanoias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”-William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet</p><p>Arthur and Alfred are three hundred years of the shore reaching desperately for the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: Hetalia and all of its wonderful characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”-William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

_1800_

“Arthur,” he whispered, fingers reaching reverently to caress the other’s downcast face before placing them, gently, underneath his chin to turn his face upward.  Gently, so gently.  As if he were made of the same delicate china that he so loved for his tea, instead of gold and gunpowder, ink and blood, emerald earth and an ancient magic that ran deeper than time.  As if he was not an Empire.

(Arthur couldn’t bear to be touched this way, not now, not by _him_ )

(Finally aware of his own strength, Alfred couldn’t bear to hurt him again, no, never again)

“Arthur, look at me.” Green eyes refused to meet his own, hidden beneath lashes like feathered gold.  The paradox of Arthur’s features had always delighted and confounded Alfred, the contrast of the soft, beatific beauty of his eyes with the nearly comical thickness of his brows, sharp and defined.  But that was Arthur—the same man who could cradle a small Alfred in his arms, lips close to the younger boy’s ear as he sang folk songs nearly as old as his nation in a whisper-warm baritone, could also use those arms to wield merciless destruction, that beautiful voice to howl the rallying cries of war. 

“Please.” Alfred’s voice broke as the quiet plea left his lips, and Arthur finally met his gaze, perhaps surprised to hear his own pain mirrored in the other.  It was a thick, smothering kind of pain, too heavy for the mouth to hold.  It tasted like repulsion, but that was only to mask the hidden truth below the surface-- of betrayal, of anguish, of

Adoration.

It was raining again, the same as it had that fateful day. While the heavens poured out their silvery tears to wash the dusty earth, the men pretended it too could cleanse them of the bloodshed, rinse away the scarlet past. Arthur had always smelled faintly of blood, even when a younger Alfred could not yet identify the metallic scent that hung upon his caretaker as a shroud when he threw himself eagerly into his embrace. He had breathed it in and reveled in Arthur’s closeness.

(Perhaps that was the reason why he could never rid himself of the heady promise of _Empire_ )

(The desire to take and to hold forevermore. A curse passed from nation to nation)

(Or perhaps it was not, perhaps it was always there)

(Arthur had tried so hard to protect him)

They stood too close in the dark alley, Arthur’s back pressed against the rough brick of the building behind him. It had not been standing the last time he was here. Philadelphia seemed to grow more every day, a city mapped with care, plotted to linear perfection years before, setting new standards for how a metropolis could be built.  With care, with cooperation, with time. A testament to Alfred’s new way.

In the city of brotherly love, Arthur wondered how it had all gone wrong.  He attempted to speak, but no words would dare leave. He paused, and tried again.

“Alfred, you--“He was abruptly cut off as Alfred suddenly leaned in, pressing soft, insistent lips against his own.  Fingers now longer than his tangled in dripping strands of golden hair.

 _It was his eyes_ , Alfred thought as he pulled Arthur closer, before Arthur opened his mouth, breathing himself out as Alfred breathed him in, and all thought disappeared completely, with the exception of _Arthur and England and always and missed you and hate you and stay and please_

Minutes earlier, Alfred had looked outside the window of the bustling pub, a heart pulsing with life and warmth amidst the dreary landscape of the rain soaked streets. He had once loved the rain, but no longer. Something within him shook with a sudden yearning certainty, and he ignored his frothing beer in favor of peering out of a grimy window. It was then that he had seen him, standing across the cobblestone street, staring back at him with eyes that Alfred knew must still be lit by that intense inner flame, must still be full of all the mysteries of earth and heaven and the liminal space between.  They regarded each other for a single electric moment before Arthur turned away, disappearing into the growing shadows. 

And just as the tides were helpless to resist the pull of the pearl glowing moon, Alfred had stood and immediately followed him, deaf to the curious inquiries of his companions as he left their table for the door and was swallowed by the rain and cool of evening.

Arthur’s eyes were the enchanted life of this world.  They were the same eyes that had beckoned to him with promises of companionship and protection in that field so long ago, eyes that had captivated Alfred from the first moment he saw them, reaching a tiny hand to touch his face. They were eyes that had always lingered upon him with both exasperation and wonder, but they never fully saw him. They couldn’t, then. But now-

Arthur pushed him back, breathing heavily. Alfred staggered, dazed as suddenly the warm completeness was replaced with the indifferent sting of rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“I cannot.” His gaze returned to the slippery cobblestones, dimly reflecting a flickering streetlamp.

“Arthur, Arthur, no. Look at me, Arthur, see me, please.” Alfred wasn’t quite sure what he was saying anymore, but he reached for him anyway, a desperate tug of the sea on the land before gravity inevitably tore them apart again. Yet the stubborn ocean continued to reach, and reach, and reach, liquid crystal fingers brushing softly against sand (so close) only to be ripped away. 

(And in the golden grains that managed to escape in the sea’s embrace, the shore said _I will love you, always, until there is nothing left of me_ )

“No, America. Stop this.”  Arthur’s voice shook, but he held his ground. Alfred winced at the formal use of his nation name.

“Why did you come?” He had felt the oddest blend of elation and anger at seeing Arthur standing so casually on his streets, as if this were still his home. 

Arthur muttered something angrily.

“What?”

He turned to Alfred with blazing absinthe eyes, and Alfred’s breath caught in his throat.  Arthur’s eyes were so bright—they looked as if they could just as easily set Alfred aflame or drown him in unshed tears—the ocean within.

“I said, why did you _leave,_ you sodding, ungrateful prat?”  

Arthur had tried to deny it. During the moonless nights he consoled himself with the thought that America would always need him, unable to survive on his own. He’d sate his taste for rebellion and then come running back into England’s open arms.  For a while, it looked as though he would, as the new country struggled to navigate the tumultuous waters of trade and economics, whilst simultaneously trying to unify his new “states” under ineffective Articles of Confederation.  But then the Constitution was ratified, stabilizing the nation. As more and more countries began to recognize America as independent, England knew he could lie to himself no more.  The bloody, brutal truth was that the one person he treasured more than anything else was willing to risk death to escape him. The truth burned him from the inside out, until there was nothing left but a smoking husk where once dwelled vibrant life. No, the truth hurt too much. It was easier to lie, to drown himself in alcohol and pretend he couldn’t see flames.

(Scotland had laughed when he found him one morning lying in the dewy hills near Edinburgh, much farther north than he usually dared to wander)

( _Is this because of your wayward New World lover?_ his eyes, also green yet so different, darker, glinting with wicked mirth)

( _He’s not my lover._  There was a throbbing in his head and the hollow space where his heart used to lay his head on his chest…Everything hurt and nothing made sense, the sun was too bright, why was Alistair so loud?)

( _They’ll always run from you, England. Always have, always_ _will_. He spoke in the language of their mother, an ancient tongue untempered by Norman Conquest or Anglo-Saxon influence)

( _Why?_ Arthur had asked)

(Fierce grin. _Because the only thing natural to you is poison, brother_ )

(His words echoed in the burned out shell of Arthur’s chest)

 ( _You are insatiable; you take and take and still have nothing to call your own_ )

He had come to see what miserable disrepair his former colonies had undoubtedly fallen into.

(Lie. He came to see if Alfred was alright. He hadn’t planned on speaking to him, but the earth always rushes to meet the blue beyond)

 “You know why.” Alfred’s expression was so earnest, so fond, it hurt to look at him. Realizing that this conversation would go no further, America leaned in again, pressing a tender kiss to Arthur’s forehead before starting down the street, back to the pub. 

He paused for a moment in the fading orange glow of the kerosene lamp, a wistful half smile adorning his face.

( _For you, Arthur)_

_(I did it for you.)_

Arthur did see Alfred. But even here, in the rain, surrounded by the oceans within and without, he could not look at him directly for too long, lest he be burned to ashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, thank you so much for reading, and i sincerely apologize for any mistakes and/or bad writing.  
> this is my very first fanfiction, an attempt to strengthen my creative writing skills while exploring the inner depths of characters i absolutely adore :) any suggestion is most welcome! also, while historical hetalia is my weakness and i am striving to be as accurate as possible, i fear i may sometimes write something that is historically unsound. if that is the case, i apologize and will try my best to fix it.  
> HISTORICAL NOTES  
> -In 1800, Philadelphia was the largest and most prosperous city in the United States, even bigger than New York.  
> -The Articles of Confederation was the first written constitution agreed upon by the newly liberated thirteen colonies, uniting them in "a firm league of friendship for their common defence, the security of their liberties, and their mutual and general welfare." Written in 1777 and ratified in 1781, this document placed nearly all of the power in the hands of the states' governments, thus creating a very weak federal government. Each state retained its sovereignty and independence, and the Congress was only intended to solve inter-state disputes, draft treaties, declare war, produce currency and maintain a military. However, it soon became apparent that a more centralized form of government was necessary if the country was to survive as its present form was unable to regulate commerce or impose taxes.  
> -In 1066, William the Conqueror invaded England, bringing with him both soldiers and the French language. Likewise, the Anglo-Saxons, continental European tribes from Germania, had settled in the British Isle from about 400 A.D. The blending of these cultures and languages with those of the indigenous people on the island profoundly shaped what would become Modern English, which most linguists agree began around 1500.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is that not strange?”- William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

_1762_

Just for today, he would let himself forget.

There was no war, no debts, no fear. Only the earth and the sky and Alfred, only Alfred. How could he be expected to focus on anything else? His colony had this way of dragging him away from his worst thoughts with that ridiculous strength of his, thrusting Arthur instead into the chaotic and glorious possibilities of _now, right now._   And right now, laughter tumbled unbidden from his heaving chest as he ran, chasing Alfred across fields kissed soft with spring. They had abandoned their shoes somewhere near the house.

It was that hour of afternoon where everything the sun touches is transformed into gold.  _The Midas hour_ , Alfred had once called it, after Arthur had spent nights reading to him from an anthology of illustrated Greek mythology he had purchased on a whim from a bookseller in London. He had allowed the boy to stay up far past his usual bedtime on account of the stories, finally forcing him into bed around midnight after reading tale after tale of brave heroes and jealous gods.  

Now Alfred tore through the verdant fields, tossing a mischievous glance over his shoulder at him before plunging into the woods.  

 Dodging the precarious obstacle course of brambles, roots, and low-hanging tree limbs, Arthur felt even lighter when he realized where Alfred was heading.  _He remembered._  Even though everything had felt odd between them recently. Even though (and he loathed to admit this to himself) Alfred didn’t seem to need him anymore.  (yet he still remembered)

(and he would always need him, just in a different way)

Alfred stopped in the clearing, collapsing in the shade of one of the ancient oak trees.  Dappled sunlight filtered through the lush emerald foliage, pouring between the spaces in radiant beams, glowing and gold. Delicate, colorful wildflowers bloomed among the curling roots and clusters of toadstools, and the cool grass was soft beneath his feet. A tiny Eden, just for them. Arthur settled beside him, resting against the rough tree trunk with one arm behind his head, and Alfred automatically leaned against him, breathing in his familiar scent of petrichor and gunmetal. Arthur curled his other arm around his waist.

It was…almost instinctive at this point. Or maybe Alfred just needed an anchor, because the joyous recognition upon the other’s face when he realized their location was currently causing him feelings too big to name. He loved England like he breathed—constantly and subconsciously.  The tides embraced the shore in the rolling waves of his chest, rising and falling in an eternal rhythm, and Alfred rested his head against the place where he could hear his dear guardian’s heart beating, strong and sure.

“But I honestly believe that it would not be that difficult,” Alfred continued their conversation from earlier into Arthur’s shirt. “To make the flying machine, I mean.”

Arthur snorted.

“I do not jest! It is only a simple matter of figuring out the proper engineering.”

“Hmm.”

Alfred shifted, now resting with his head in Arthur’s lap. Here he had a better view of the sky. Brilliant blue-gold revealed itself in the holes of the forest’s green tapestry, the spaces between the branches’ embrace. Absently, he took Arthur’s hand (warm, slightly sweaty) to lace their fingers together. The other nation stiffened for a moment, but didn’t pull away.

“Do you think man ever could fly?”

Arthur pondered this for a moment.  “You could. Only…take care not to fly too close to the sun.” The younger smiled at the reference, undoubtedly remembering cold nights made warm by a shared quilt and warmer embrace, Arthur changing his voice to match each character he read. Fragrant lavender tea on the stove and dancing candlelight by the bed.  In his memories, the amber flames had floated around the bedposts, but Alfred couldn’t remember if that was true or not. Everything had seemed magical with Arthur.

“You’d catch me if I fell,” he murmured in reply. “But if you had made the wings in the first place, I could fly to the moon and back with no trouble.”

His voice dripped with sincerity, and not for the first time, Arthur winced inwardly. He was sure his colony would not think of him with such trusting admiration if he had seen what he was capable of—if he could know what that endless longing for _power_ and _people_ and _home_ could drive a nation to do.  But America was his second chance, and he had promised himself long ago that Alfred needn’t know the dark side of the Empire where the sun never set.

He could never deserve him, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try with every fiber of his being to bestow upon his beloved colony everything that he himself had been cruelly denied. 

 Sunlit flowers gave off a sweet, heady scent, and, after gently removing his hand from the American’s hold, Arthur rediscovered the familiar pattern of picking and weaving, carefully twisting stems the way graceful inhuman hands had showed him in a time at the edges of memory.  Visiting the colony like this took him back to his own childhood with the Fae, before war turned him ruthless.  

Alfred hummed an unfamiliar tune beneath him, eyes closed.

Finishing the flower crown, Arthur reached down to place it on top of his head. Bright eyes flew open in surprise, and Alfred laughed. “Did your faeries teach you that?”   

He nodded. Arthur sometimes felt sorry that his colony did not share his gift of the Sight. He would have loved to share his experiences of the fae with him, whisper to him of the hidden, ancient world that lay on top of this one like a second skin. He wanted to share everything with him.

Because even as distant as he was becoming, Alfred still made him ache. In the worst best way.

(After all, what are the chances that you find someone who loves you unconditionally?)

Arthur looked down at the boy in his lap, allowing himself the momentary bliss of simple observation, etching Alfred’s features into his memory. The sweetly crooked mouth that was biased towards smiling. The single lock of blond that refused to stay in place, no matter how you styled it. The cinnamon sprinkling of freckles, which Alfred himself hated but he found impossibly lovely.  And, even beyond those endearing traits, there remained something ineffably, enchantingly nebulous about him—a wavering certainty, an unknown potential.

So precious, this boy. Perhaps in another world, in a better world, they could always be together like this, carefree, sun drenched and fae.

(but until then, he would continue to shape the world in his image)

He could not stop from worrying, worry for Alfred’s ambiguous borders, his ambitious neighbors.

“I think we should draw the line. Not just to appease the Frog, but for your sake as well.”

Alfred tried to suppress the discontented feeling rising in his chest, but Arthur immediately recognized the tell-tale frown spread across his colony’s otherwise smooth features.

“To keep you safe,” England murmured, placating. “I must protect you from those murderous savages.”  

Something twisted in America’s heart at England’s harsh dismissal of the natives. But England thought they were savages, and there was so much of England in him, sometimes it was difficult to distinguish where England ended and he began. It was wondrous to feel so close to him, but his presence was sometimes dizzying. Overpowering.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispered quietly.

“I understand.” Alfred didn’t, but Arthur looked genuinely apologetic, and he hated to see that troubled expression return to Arthur’s face when he had finally succeeded at making it disappear, if only for an afternoon.  “Don’t fret, Arthur. I know you think of this only for my benefit.”

He appeared to relax at these words, and, now certain that England wouldn’t return to his fears regarding the settlement of the war, Alfred returned his attention to the pile of daisies in his lap, trying to remember how Arthur had so carefully strung them together. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he finally managed to connect the blooms without them falling apart.

"There.” In his hands, he held a finished crown, the flowers a little crushed, the stems already beginning to unravel slightly, but together and finished all the same. He grinned proudly, sitting up to place it on top of Arthur’s tangled waves before resting again on the downy grass. 

Arthur reached up, feeling the woven crown with gentle fingers. “You did well.” He was always amazed at how quickly America could pick up skills, simply by watching him.  “How do I look?” He teased.

Alfred blushed. “Lovely. Like a faerie prince.”

“Why, thank you. But I must tell you, the fae are far fairer than I.”

“What, they don’t have caterpillar eyebrows?” Alfred teased good-naturedly.

“Very funny.” Arthur quipped. His expression grew reflective for a moment as he pondered his time spent with the Fair Folk.  Yes, they were beautiful, but they had the potential for such cruelty. Perhaps it was, as one water nymph had whispered into his ear as he leaned towards her lake home, her wet skin shining with tiny iridescent scales, because they had thistles where men had hearts. Sometimes England thought he resembled them more than he cared to admit. Feeling Alfred’s eyes on him, he turned to meet his gaze, and was struck yet again by how profoundly _blue_ they were.

He looked to the sky, and then back down to Alfred’s eyes, struggling to find a difference. Both were the blue of unfettered freedom, a resting place for dreams and the home of flying machines and soaring birds and twinkling stars. Encompassing every celestial wonder Arthur could never hope to grasp entirely, the one realm he could never conquer.  But as Alfred gazed back at him with a warmth that would put even the stars to shame, he realized that there was something perhaps even more mysterious in the shade of his dear one’s azure eyes. His most human softness. Nations were almost as immortal as the sky, but not entirely. And it was rare moments such as this, when they were required to be nothing but human, that Arthur secretly treasured.

“What do you think of?” The boy whispered, sweet curiosity shining through his features, insuppressible.

“You. Always you. And the sky.”  

Unfathomably blue eyes shone with happiness, and freckled cheeks flushed pink. “Ah. What of the sky?”

Arthur hummed, before playfully flicking Alfred on the nose. “It was a great act of kindness to make the sky so blue.”

Alfred’s smile grew even wider, and he pulled England on top of him. “You always say the most beautiful things,” he chuckled softly into Arthur’s hair. 

Arthur blushed, hoping Alfred couldn’t feel how fast his heart was beating through his thin shirt.

(they had discarded vests and coats somewhere around the same place they divested their shoes)

(When had Alfred’s voice gotten so deep? He could feel it rumbling through every inch of his being, shaking him to the core)

These strange feelings, the giddy warmth and the lightning crackling in his veins, were occurring more and more frequently the longer they spent time together. Alfred had always been made of fire and starlight, but now it felt as though stars were born at his touch, exploding into glorious being with every subconscious brush of his hands against Arthur’s skin.  It was new and electric, terrifying and thrilling. Yet Arthur could not shake the guilt he felt at suddenly viewing his cherished colony in such a way.

As if he had just realized the compromising position he had put the both of them in, Alfred blushed, but his impossibly blue eyes never left Arthur’s face, suddenly so close to his own. His arms rested around the smaller nation’s waist. Arthur forgot how to breathe.

“Arthur,” he breathed, “kiss me.”

 _Kiss me._  Surely he didn’t mean… Arthur felt his own face flush scarlet as his gaze fell upon Alfred’s temptingly soft lips, parted and pink.   He gently placed a hand on Alfred’s cheek, heart stuttering when the other leaned eagerly into his touch, eyes fluttering closed.

 _Love, I cannot. You are too precious for me._ Closing his eyes, Arthur placed a soft kiss against his colony’s forehead. As he pulled away, he carefully watched Alfred’s face.

Alfred’s eyes were mirthful, and nervous, and something else, for which Arthur could not find a name. “No, Arthur.” The corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a mischievous half-smirk. “Like this-‘’ he pressed flurries of kisses across both of Arthur’s cheeks- “and this”-on his nose- “and this”-down his neck-(Arthur was shivering, brain short-circuiting)-“and this”-the corner of his jaw- “And—”

They were kissing.  They were kissing, and it was perfect, and it was warm, and it was beautiful, and it was almost too much. Alfred’s mouth was soft, inexperienced and eager against his own. Slowly, tenderly, they melted into each other.   

A tiny sigh escaped Arthur’s lips when fingers reached up to card through his hair, blunt nails gently rubbing his scalp, and Alfred took the opportunity to touch tentatively his tongue to his.

The sensation shocked Arthur’s heart, and suddenly the reality of the situation slammed through his dreamy stupor.

Oh, god. _What was he doing?_

_(it’s too much)_

Gasping, Arthur summoned all of his willpower to separate himself from the other, pushing himself off of Alfred’s solid chest.  “I can’t, oh god, I’m so sorry-“

Fist clenching a handful of his shirt, Alfred pulled him down into another kiss, blue eyes glazed and dark.  He tasted like longing, and Arthur let himself drown in the softness of his skin.

(One perfect second. Two, three. Four…)

(it’s too much)

This time when Arthur disentangled himself from Alfred’s embrace, the younger didn’t try to grab him again. He simply stared up at him, one hand absentmindedly reaching to touch his own slightly swollen mouth, as if he couldn’t believe that Arthur had just been there, all heavy breaths and chasing tongue and _burning, burning_ desire. They regarded each other in silence as their breathing gradually returned to normal.

Unsurprisingly, Alfred was the first to speak, breathless and a little giddy. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Arthur groaned in response, hiding his face in his hands.

“ _Arthur.”_ His voice was gentle, too kind, and oh god what had he done? _Desecrated,_ his mind screamed, _destroyed._ Taken one step too far across a rapidly blurring boundary. “Arthur, it’s okay.”

America had rolled onto his side, now facing him. Carefully, he pried the other’s hands away from his face. “We could—we could be together. I do not know much of courting, but with you—“

“No. No. No. I am sorry, that was wrong of me. ” Arthur spoke barely above a whisper, hating the way Alfred’s face struggled not to crumple, hating himself for his lack of control.  “Alfred, I beg of you, please forget this.”

He frowned, sitting up and releasing Arthur’s hands. “I don’t want to forget. Why should I?” he paused. “Are you ashamed of me? Because I am a man?”

Arthur wished it was that simple. _I could never be ashamed of you._ “No. the rules of human institutions have never applied to us.” He was an Empire, he could never forget.

(but in that sweet press of lips to lips the country had been the furthest from his mind)

(Alfred had always made him forget)

( _and that is how he would break him_ )

 “Why, then?”

 _Because lovers cannot possess one another,_ he thought sadly. _You deserve more than that._ Arthur hardly considered himself a paragon of romantic virtue, but with America things were different, always different.

 “It wouldn’t be proper,” he said instead. “And marriages between nations are only made as alliances, so that both countries receive protection from each other. I already protect you.”

 As if reading his thoughts, Alfred quickly interjected, “I would give myself to you freely. Not forced by our circumstances of colonizer and colony.  And I want to protect you, too.  I’m yours, Arthur, I’ve always been yours, ever since you took me in, ever since I was old enough to want...” He looked down for a moment, blushing, before staring back at Arthur, resolute. “You are all that I want.”

 Arthur’s smile was sad as he reached out to brush a stray lock of blond hair from Alfred’s forehead. “Sweet one, I am all you have ever known.”

(I have been your mother, father, brother, earth and sky)

Alfred’s fists tightened in Arthur’s shirt as he struggled to express all he was feeling. “Please, I…I need you so much closer.”

(I missed you so much, I was formless without your sure foundation) (And god your smile alone could end all the wars you insist on starting)  

Oh, how this hurt. But he must continue, for both his and Alfred’s sake.  Slowly, he removed Alfred’s hands from his shirt and gently placed them over his heart.

 “Do you feel that? It is you. You are my heart Alfred, and our people my lifeblood. You are always in me, and I in you.”  Alfred silently pondered this for a moment. It sounded like a promise. Lifting Arthur’s hand to his lips to place a tender, almost reverent kiss, he whispered,

“London beats in my chest.”

“And Jamestown in mine.”

They were quiet for a while.

“We should probably start heading back. It will be dark soon and I’m afraid I’m still not entirely sure where the rest of our clothes are.” 

America nodded in agreement, standing quickly and offering a hand to him. Arthur accepted, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.  

“Arthur.” The hand grasping his tightened suddenly, and he glanced up in surprise.

 ( _And In that moment he swore America had never looked more beautiful_.) With blazing eyes almost frightening in their intensity, Alfred gazed at him as though he was the only person in the world. Arthur couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

“I would,” Alfred began, nearly choked with emotion, “wait for you forever. But if I cannot love you as a lover, then I shall love you as my brother and my friend.”

(it wasn't enough)

Arthur was speechless.

Later, the setting sun would stain the forests and fields blood red as they embarked silently upon their journey home.  Side by side, shoulders brushing subconsciously, as though there was some strange magnetic force within both of them that would always draw them together, never allowing them to be too far apart.

( _it would have to be enough)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, dear. thank you so much for reading :) i'm sorry this chapter was self-indulgent trash. oh, who am i kidding? this whole fic is ridiculously self-indulgent trash.
> 
> HISTORICAL NOTES  
> -The debts England is preoccupied with settling are those incurred by the Seven Year's War (which actually lasted nine years) an expensive conflict with fighting both in Europe and North America. There were essentially two wars centered in Europe: one between England, France and Spain, and another between Prussia, France, Austria, and Sweden. In America, the fighting was primarily a territorial dispute between Britain and France, after the French began to expand into the Ohio River Valley. Native American tribes such as the Iroquois aligned themselves with the French, while the colonies aided Britain. England's proposed solution to this debt (taxing the colonies) would set the stage for the American Revolution.  
> -"Draw a line" refers to the Proclamation of 1763, a formal boundary line drawn at the end of the Seven Years' War to mark the western borders of the thirteen colonies at the Appalachian Mountains in order to prevent further expansion of English settlers into newly acquired French and Native American territory. Settlers had complained of attacks from tribes who justifiably saw them as an existential threat encroaching on their land.  
> \- The story Arthur references is the tale of Icarus and Daedalus.

**Author's Note:**

> first of all, thank you so much for reading, and i sincerely apologize for any mistakes and/or bad writing.  
> this is my very first fanfiction, an attempt to strengthen my creative writing skills while exploring the inner depths of characters i absolutely adore :) any suggestion is most welcome! also, while historical hetalia is my weakness and i am striving to be as accurate as possible, i fear i may sometimes write something that is historically unsound. if that is the case, i apologize and will try my best to fix it.  
> HISTORICAL NOTES  
> -In 1800, Philadelphia was the largest and most prosperous city in the United States, even bigger than New York.  
> -The Articles of Confederation was the first written constitution agreed upon by the newly liberated thirteen colonies, uniting them in "a firm league of friendship for their common defence, the security of their liberties, and their mutual and general welfare." Written in 1777 and ratified in 1781, this document placed nearly all of the power in the hands of the states' governments, thus creating a very weak federal government. Each state retained its sovereignty and independence, and the Congress was only intended to solve inter-state disputes, draft treaties, declare war, produce currency and maintain a military. However, it soon became apparent that a more centralized form of government was necessary if the country was to survive as its present form was unable to regulate commerce or impose taxes.  
> -In 1066, William the Conqueror invaded England, bringing with him both soldiers and the French language. Likewise, the Anglo-Saxons, continental European tribes from Germania, had settled in the British Isle from about 400 A.D. The blending of these cultures and languages with those of the indigenous people on the island profoundly shaped what would become Modern English, which most linguists agree began around 1500.


End file.
